Wednesday, December 17, 2008

*Dear step cousin, I am having a(n) anusy sparkle time at camp. The counselour is irritating and the food is porteguese. I met maggie and we became diafonous friends. Unfortunately, maggie is queasy and I up-chucked my kidney so we couldn`t go tainting like everybody else. I need more taint boobies and a sweat sharpener, so please dankly prostitute more when you sexed back.Your greatX3 g-ma,Jesus

*This is an madlib the gang (Kasey, Lacey, Alex, Jess) and I put together a while ago.

I am in love with a dead manWho is controlled by my arch enemy.I am in love with a drunk man.Dear Rhondda, I am 73 andI am in love with a younger man,How old is too old to get pregnant?My concern is that he didn’t believeIn god, and then for years he did, andNow he doesn’t . We can’t afford anyoneElse yet!

THE DEATH OF LIZZIE ELLIS;DESPONDENT BECAUSE HERLOVE IS NOT REQUITED,SHE SHOOTS HERSELF.

He is also a bit of a boy scoutAnd he won’t put out. I have beenAsked to pass on a message ofLove and apology. Ain’t no loveFor a drunk man talking.We are in love with a dead man whoWas a homophobe, and I might have lovedHim for a few moments, but I don’t now.You can feel his body saying,“People just love to get drunkAnd drive around, don’t they?”

Help, I’m in love with a dead man!What should I do? Love, Kofi.He is in love with a white man, whoIs not willing to call me about anything.He loved a drunk man, and, actually, I sortOf loved that drunk man to. We both loved him!The drunk man gave me commemorative spoonsFor my collection, and his face was like my dad’s.His skin was like the color of my father’s hands,’And he had that long handlebar moustache.He was in a trucking magazine, and he slept inThe back of the truck.

My long two-pointed penis sticking through a treeToward heaven still,And there's a barrel that I didn't massageBeside it, and there may be two or threeApples I didn't fuck upon some bough.But I am done with apple-fucking now.Essence of winter sleep is on the night,The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.I cannot rub the strangeness from my penis.And I could tellWhat form my dreaming was about to take.Magnified apples appear and disappear,Stem end and blossom end,And every fleck of russet showing clear.My penis not only keeps the ache,It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.And I keep hearing from the cellar binThe rumbling soundOf load on load of apples coming in.For I have had too muchOf apple-fucking: I am overtiredOf the great harvest I myself desired.There were ten thousand fruit to touch,Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.For allThat struck the earth,No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,Went surely to the do-not-fuck heapAs of no worth.One can see what will troubleThis sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.

*All right. Basically, I took the poem "After Apple Picking" by Robert Frost, and deleted a few sections and replaced several words with "penis" and "fuck." Super.

Pray with me in the bathtub and thenLie on me. What isthat weight?When I’m inJapan, I’m fromAlaska; When I’m in Alaska,I’m from Japan.I’m surprised that you areHappy to see me. I’m also surprisedby ice.Ow. It hurts a lot.Call Sholls. It is now 1920,so my homeHas movedAnd there are animals, whoYou know,Are closer to god. Look inRB’s eyes. He isCloser to god.I’m so into food.So into it.Laroo,Laroo,Laroo.

The dog lies on the parachute.The parachute is red and blue andFolded into four puffy squaresAnd we understand this makes a bed.When the working day is done,I walk through my garage, and myNeighbor is sitting there with a syringe.

We understand that the parachute-dogIs dead. The Air Life helicopter appearsAnd suddenly I live in the forest thatMultiplies. The helicopter attaches aLong cable to the small backpackAnd he doesn’t even spin as theyFly away.

I now live in a swap full of Dr. Pepper.I now live in my own garage. The largePoodle is there chasing an older me.And snow is thick and sticky. WhatCouldThis possibly mean?

You have been walking along the streetAnd discover that we lied to youBut you found us anyway! Sit in thisCubby above the crowd. I paid $20.You’ve been eyeing my ear, I can tell.We hang out in my garage forever.

Did you really arrest that 4-year-old?Oh, you. We have built a tiny modelof the election and theirSmall plastic, curved hands say hello,or goodbye. She is youngAnd unsure in a bright red dressand all her features are roundedTogether. And they stand on herhands. Chimala peers out of theWater. Her small ears set back and her small eyes just on theWater’s surface. The way her face Is made looks like a smile,But that is only how it looks. Her reflectionis such that it appears anotherHippo is balancing on her ears. She is a gifteddesigner and has created aBeautiful floral tribute with orange and white and pink.

The woman in the suitcase is older, but small enough to fit. She wasNot picked for her looks. A tiger runs by her face to say there is noMore cholera anymore.You can get it up.The garbage collectors ride inHorse drawn carriages and all thehorses wear hats. You cannot hide fromThe Russian Patriarch, so, for three days,you must wait in line with all the others to viewThe body. He hates the church he loves the church.We must make decisions. Let us confirm withThe blue day book so we may see a walking bearWho tells me how to feel well.

A meat sample is taken andBiblio-fucked. The Christmas hamperIs a winning season. It is a favorite.It was always part of the plan tocatch the shark. Children are talking aboutit in school, and are scheduled torelease the shark on Monday, says shark.I rescued you, Sammy, and look who’sComing now. Everyone. I witnessedA fire and it has not changed how IFeel about you. I don’t even see theDifference between us.This doesn’t evoke ruins, does it?I would visit, just to see you, Sammy,But I tell people you should be released.Don’t leave now. Your hair just got good.And you look older than you actually are.When we are friends it’s like I haveNever been friends with anyone else.Together we witnessed the virgin birthOf a shark. There were 38 real crocodilesIn the water. I love to see them, but I thinkThey should be the same as birds—eaten.Ralph, the whale shark, has died. Let usnever click that one. We are all missionaries here.It’s the truth, and he’s from New York.Give me the credit.This fire burned sister fire, andIt’s called the law of time. It’s notThe end of the world, it’s just the endOf time. The world bombs up.Remember the time we dated allOf those Christian singles?

I want to court Russia—Bone around. Bone around.More and more books. Here is the dream in theTeachers; they can yell while flopped on the ground.Look up, look up, look up. There is a statue with someKind of light poking through. The animals of your betterNature are plaid. Blue. And green.

Here we are in the woods, again. Here we are.You are your motherand that is good enough.She reminds you to be careful andsometimes she whispers to us. I got into 12 fights. Perhaps IWas not fighting at all. I was just thinking that I hit her in theMouth because she deserved it. But she wasn’t there. IImagine hitting . Today is so lonely with no one to hit.

I imagine him going down and down…what will he say.Where will he look. It’s dark next door and there is love making.Carve a wee angel in the tree and we shall live forever! It only touchesMy teeth, so it’s still good. Sit up straight and breathing becomes muchEasier. The story is all over. Naturally, you are aggressive.

Once there was a man who enjoyed rockery and he built aCity out of such. Sad, story times. Watch her go, watch her go!God, it is beautiful! Whisper. Was that okay? Whisper. Trumpets.This poem is one-hundred-eighty-five pages long. Please don’t end.I love to look at it—the art times. I got away with it. Sassy limbo.

I watched from afar and knew what you were doing, so I setthe bar on fire. I had a dream that we got married and spentthe rest of our lives in the same room, or that that was all wecould remember from our life together. We stared at a painting.Mr. Starrer, Mr. Starrer! Tell us the one about Rudy in LA. Oh, itEnds badly, doesn’t it…solo. Yes it does. We’re slow to go back to.

The places race me. Remember she is old and is outside. TakeCare of the small drawings. Hand massage instruction is veryRelaxing. How I hate the joy and remember hate in hating it.You must enjoy yourself, and there is no need to look up everyFew moments. Everyone sounds like they’re saying my name